


I See Fire

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baz is a Dragon Rider, Canonical Character Death mentioned, Dragon Simon, Dragonrider AU, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Simon is his dragon, childhood meeting, except dragons ARE magic, non magical au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27926893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: Dragon Rider AU. Baz comes from a long line of Pitch Dragon Riders and Simon is a dragon. They meet as children, brought together by fate, free will and the Crucible that binds them. Their years of training them closer-from their adversarial start, to their strengthening bond, to the eventual love that binds them more deeply than any ritual ever could. This is the story of their first encounter.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 26
Kudos: 79





	I See Fire

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this art](https://cynopoe.tumblr.com/post/634526088956100608/dragon-rider-au) by cynopoe
> 
> I was inspired the moment I saw this art. I started writing this fic that same day.
> 
> my thanks to giishu, fight-surrender and krisrix for their enthusiasm, support and beta reads of this fic!

**I See Fire**

Baz was eleven years old when he first met Simon. Not that anyone called him Simon then. Or Snow. 

(Or any of the other creative epithets Baz used as insults in the nine years that followed their first meeting.) 

No, on that particular day Simon was just a presence, a span of red wings, bronze tipped scales, eyes a fathomless blue. 

And a repository for all the resentment that Baz harbored within himself. 

It was tradition for potential Dragon Riders who had reached their eleventh year to attend the Choosing ceremony at the foot of the mountain in hopes of being paired with the dragon that would share in their training—the dragon that would become their constant companion, their partner in the sky—for the glory and safety of the realm. 

Baz had been to the mountain before, of course. He’d come often enough with his mother, in her years as Head Dragon Rider. She would bring him along when she could, safely nestled in front of her on Ebb’s broad, emerald-green back. 

Ebb. His mother’s dragon. 

Not hers anymore. Not since that day in the south hills when Baz was five.

Baz had been there when it happened. He had seen the pack of black wyverns come over the hills. He had heard his mother shout out to his aunt before taking flight, heard the urgency in her voice.

His mother had soared into the air, Ebb’s powerful muscles propelling them both off the ground with a speed that had left him breathless. 

He remembered the way his mother had looked back at him, met his eyes, mouthed words that were carried away by the wind. 

And then Baz had been carried away himself, grabbed by the collar and settled in front of Aunt Fiona, her fingers digging into his side as she steadied him on Nico’s back. Carried home, away from his mother, away from the unexpected onslaught of wyverns, the dark green of Nico’s iridescent scales all he could see. 

Ebb had left him that day too, after gently setting his mother’s broken body at his father’s feet. She had stretched her neck out, as if waiting for a blow, but his father’s knees had buckled, leaving him sprawling on the ground at his mother’s side. Aunt Fiona had put a hand on Ebb’s neck—more to take comfort, Baz realized, than to steady herself—heedless of the blood, the torn scales, the ragged wounds that marred the span of wings above their heads. Something had sparked between the dragon and his aunt nonetheless. A wordless communication that had ended with Ebb taking wing, unsteadily circling once overhead, then vanishing into the low-lying clouds that dimmed the setting sun. 

That had been fifteen years ago. 

The passage of time hadn’t made Baz miss his mother any less. 

The initial abyss of loss, an echoing void of longing, that lingering ache in his chest … all the ways her absence clawed at him. 

It had hurt when he reached his eleventh year, not having her there for his Choosing. 

Not feeling the firm grip of her hand on his shoulder, not hearing the precise cadence of the Words of Greeting in her resonant voice, not inhaling the subtle scent of her (bergamot and jasmine, vetiver and sandalwood).

There was a chest in his father’s room that still held traces of that aroma, with her riding leathers and tunics folded neatly at the bottom, the array of scarves a brilliantly coloured cascade just above, and a small sachet nestled on top.

At times Baz would creep into his father’s room to pry the chest open, the silken rainbow of fabric slipping through his fingers as he breathed in the dusty scent of memories. 

He had done that the morning of the Choosing. His father had come into the room and found Baz seated next to the chest. He hadn’t spoken, just lowered himself to the floor beside Baz and traced his finger along a stretch of blue silk. 

It was Baz who had finally broken the silence. “I always thought she’d be there.”

His father had sighed, fingers wrinkling the scarf as his grip on it tightened. He had relaxed then, had pulled the blue scarf away from the others and had run its brightness through his hands for a moment before he spoke. “You should take this with you.” 

Baz had stared at his father. “It’s hers.”

“She’d want you to have it.” His father had leaned forward to gently wrap it around Baz’s neck, tucking the folds inside his tunic. “She’d want you to have something. . .” He had cleared his throat before continuing. “Something of hers there with you.”

Baz had caught her scent as his father had settled the scarf around his neck. If he closed his eyes . . . 

If he closed his eyes he could almost pretend she was there. 

“Do you think it’ll happen for me today?” he had asked his father, eyes still closed. 

“It might.” 

Baz had opened his eyes. “But it might not.”

His father had placed a hand over his. “Your mother bonded with Ebb when she was eleven. Fiona too, with Nico.” He paused then, a crease forming between his brows. 

“Pitches have always been Dragon Riders,” Baz had said.

That had brought a hint of a smile to his father’s face. “That they have. But you’re as much Grimm as you are Pitch, Baz.” He had nudged Baz’s shoulder when Baz had groaned in response to those words. “Grimms are fireworkers too, you know. Not like the Pitches. We don’t bond with the great drakes of the north, at least not many of us do. But we craft their harnesses, forge the Riders’ weapons, create the tools we need to serve our country. We are the smiths, the forge workers, the ones who make fire _serve us_ , in a less flamboyant way than they do, but no less necessary. Don’t forget that.”

“I want to be a Dragon Rider like Mother,” Baz had whispered. 

His father had gripped his hand then, fingers closing over Baz’s smaller hand tightly enough to almost hurt. “I know you do. But it is fate that decides, not us.”

Baz hadn’t answered him but he had remembered his mother’s words, spoken to the assembled candidates a few months before he’d lost her, the first time he’d been allowed to attend the Choosing ceremony. 

“Dragon Riders may be born,” she had said to the assembled candidates, resplendent in her ceremonial scarlet leathers. “But not all who are born to ride do so. It is a choice you make, to answer the summons. You may want it, heart and soul, but at its very essence, it is still a choice. A choice to answer the call of the dragon. Just as it is the dragon’s choice to accept the bond with you.” She had placed a hand on Ebb’s neck. “No one can make a dragon accept a rider. No one can make you take to the skies.”

Baz had asked her about it that night, when she was putting him to bed. “How do you know, Mama? How do you know you are meant to be a Dragon Rider?”

She had seated herself on the edge of his bed, one cool, callused hand pushing the hair out of his eyes. “It’s a match lighting up in your heart, Baz. You feel the heat of it inside you, the spark that catches. When you find your dragon—or when your dragon finds you—it’s as if you’ve fanned the flames.” She had leaned down to kiss his forehead. “If it’s meant to be, you’ll know.”

_If it’s meant to be, you’ll know._

Those words had echoed in his head nine years ago, as he stood with the other candidates at his own Choosing ceremony. The First Dragon Rider, the one who had taken his mother’s place, had been speaking the Words of Greeting but Baz could hardly hear him over the memory of his mother’s voice. 

First Rider David Mage had stood in front of the group, clad all in green, a departure from the traditional red Baz’s mother had favored. Mage’s dragon had simmered restlessly at his side, tendrils of smoke rising from its snout, the expanse of its black scales absorbing the light of the sunset rather than reflecting it. 

Black dragons were exceedingly rare. Aunt Fiona always focused on that fact when Mage was mentioned, her voice utterly failing to conceal the rancour she harboured against the man who had taken her sister’s place. 

“Wyverns are black,” she had insisted repeatedly, in those early months after Baz’s mother had been lost to them. 

His father had sighed. “That they are, but Mage is not in league with the wyverns, Fiona. It was a rogue attack, not something any of us could have predicted or forestalled.” He had rubbed his temple, stirring the hair that had faded from black to white in the aftermath of his wife’s death. “He’s been in the upper ranks of Riders almost as long as you have. Loyal to country and king. And he’s had that dragon for a few years now, since the golden one he first bonded with fell ill. It is no wyvern, but dragon-born, just as sure as Nico is.”

“I don’t trust him, Malcolm,” she had said. “I don’t trust him, and I don’t trust black dragons.”

Baz hadn’t been inclined to trust black dragons either. The sight of that dragon at Mage’s side had brought back the memories of the wyvern attack, sending chills down his spine. 

That certainly hadn’t boded well. On the day when he should have been feeling the spark of his destiny instead. 

He hadn’t felt warm. He hadn’t felt alight with purpose or determination or want. 

He had felt lost. And so very alone. 

Until the dragons had started circling overhead, touching down one by one across from them. 

It had been six years since she had left their family, but Baz had instantly recognized that circling descent, that wingspan, that particular shade of brilliant green. 

_Ebb._

Ebb had been across from him, at the head of the column of fledgling dragons, her burnished green scales resplendent against the setting sun. 

That had brought a rush of warmth back to him, fueled further by the bonfire she set alight to signal the beginning of the ceremony. 

The Crucible had been set on its stand, the flames burning bright below it, bathing its polished surface in an orange glow. 

This part of the ceremony had long been a responsibility of the Grimm smiths—procuring the metals for this night, placing them in the Crucible to be melted in the dragonborn flames, molding the bronze rings that were given to the Dragon Rider apprentices as a sign of the bond with their dragon. 

It had been Baz’s uncle who had taken on the duty that night. 

The fledglings had been ranged alongside Ebb, much as the candidates had been arrayed behind Mage on Baz’s side. They had stared at each other across the fiery center as Baz took in the sight of each one, searching for some answering spark of interest in the glittering eyes that met his own. 

Dragons scaled in green, gold, red, bronze, blue—as varied as the scarves his mother had left behind. 

It had started with one blue dragon stepping forward, neck outstretched and wings flaring as it scanned the gathering of humans in front of it. A girl a few paces away from Baz had gasped, then taken her own step forward. Then another. Step by step until she had stood in front of the dragon, which was almost twice as tall as she was. It had lowered its head and she had reached out a tentative hand to brush its neck. The dragon had closed its eyes before resting its head on her shoulder. A shout had gone up from the crowd and Baz had watched as his uncle poured the metal into the first mold. 

So it had gone, the dragons stepping forward one by one with the awe-inducing offer to forge a covenant with the humans that stood in wait. 

There had been a few in the ranks who stepped back; ones who had bowed to the dragon across from them, arms crossed over their chests, before melting into the shadows. 

_Choice,_ Baz’s mother had said. 

But maybe not for him. 

The warmth that had briefly flared in him at the sight of Ebb had swiftly faded as the line of dragons dwindled, and not one had given him a second glance. Most hadn’t even graced him with a first glance, if Baz had to be honest. It had left him feeling hollow, as empty as if the insides had been scooped out of him, leaving an aching void in their wake. 

Baz had soon found himself alone on his side of the fire, staring straight ahead, jaw clenched and blinking rapidly. Not today then. Not this year. 

_Maybe not ever_ , he had thought to himself. 

Flames had continued to flare in front of him but all Baz could see was the image of his mother’s face as she flew away from him that last time. 

Not enough. He hadn’t been good enough to follow in her path. Not enough of the Pitch Dragon Rider legacy in him. After all these years of wanting he had still managed to let her down. 

If he turned around, he’d see his father’s face and Baz wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. 

It seemed he’d let them all down. Mother. Father. Aunt Fiona.

First Rider Mage had probably forgotten Baz was still standing there, with his arms crossed over his chest, fingers clutching his own elbows. Mage had cleared the space to approach Ebb, attempting to speak to her. 

But Ebb’s eyes had found Baz, not paying any heed to the man trying to attract her attention. She had dipped her head in greeting, and that had brought the tears Baz had been holding back rushing to the surface. He was sure to have disappointed Ebb too. 

There had been a few dragons still clustered behind her, the ones who had likely matched with those of his companions who had harboured second thoughts about becoming Riders. 

_How could that be fair,_ Baz fumed. They had come and gone and chosen to take a different path, with it likely weighing little on them. Baz had come here burning with one purpose—to follow in his mother’s footsteps, to be worthy of her legacy. And he had fallen short. 

He could perhaps make an attempt next year, but what if he found disappointment again? How many times could he bring himself to try?

 _As many times as needed,_ he had told himself. Mother had never given up, not even at the end. If she could challenge a pack of wyverns on her own, then Baz could certainly brave the Choosing again. 

Ebb had not taken her eyes off him. And that’s when he had noticed she wasn’t standing alone. There had been a surprisingly small dragon at her side, the burnished bronze of it dimmed by the shadow of her. It had taken a step into the light just then and Baz could see it more clearly, the bronze glinting golden at the tips of its wings, the scales iridescent in copper and scarlet and even deeper reds. 

But what had struck Baz the most was the unexpected colour of this dragon’s eyes: blue, the brilliant blue of cloudless morning skies and deep, sunlit pools of water. A blue as bright as his mother’s favorite scarf, the one Father had tucked under his tunic that morning. 

He had never seen a dragon with blue eyes before. 

It had been impossible to look away until the grate of Mage’s voice had cut across the space, speaking the litany of words that should have ended the ceremony. And should have ended Baz’s hopes for that night as well.

But Ebb had not responded to Mage. She had kept her gaze on Baz. She and the dragon at her side, who had taken another step forward, eyeing Baz warily. 

Baz could have sworn Ebb had nudged it. 

Another tentative step. Then it had looked back at Ebb, who had nodded. 

That’s when the resentment had flooded through Baz. He should by all rights have felt relief, if not a flare of hope, that perhaps there was a chance for him to leave that circle with a bronze ring on his finger. 

But he had wanted this on his own merits. To have earned the honor for himself. Not have Ebb feel pity for him and chivvy some reluctant, undersized, biddable dragon at him. 

Baz had wanted to be _chosen_. Baz had wanted _to choose_. 

“What’s this then?” Mage’s voice had boomed. He had stood between Baz and the blue-eyed dragon, hands on his hips, eyes darting between them. “This one hardly looks big enough to carry a rider, Ebb.” He had peered at the bronze dragon, who seemed to take offense at the comment, based on how it had flared its wings and arched its neck. That hadn’t stopped Mage from continuing. “Take a chance next year, when we’ve got a better crop of candidates.”

It had been Baz’s turn to be offended. He had taken a step forward, locking eyes with the bronze dragon. No words had been exchanged, but he could sense the matching indignation in the set of the dragon’s jaw and the flapping of its wings as it sent a shower of sparks scattering. 

Mage had sidestepped the flurry of embers just as the dragon had moved to cross the space, meeting Baz in the middle. 

They had sized each other up, eye to eye. The dragon hadn’t bothered to bow its head. Baz hadn’t bothered to reach out a hand. They had glared at each other across that strip of space, unified only when Mage had stepped toward them. “Enough now, you two. The Choosing is over for tonight. You can try again next year, Pitch, if you’re so inclined,” he had said to Baz. “And you might need to bulk up a bit before joining the ranks,” he had said to the little dragon. 

They had moved as one then, the dragon dropping its head a few inches just as Baz had reached out a hand to brush its scales. The scales had been warm, as warm as the sensation that had rushed through Baz’s belly, flared up into his chest, and suffused his face with heat. 

The match had been lit. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> fic title from the Ed Sheeran song "I See Fire" from the Hobbit movies
> 
> I originally intended this to be a one-shot but I've had so many ideas for this storyline and now am wondering about writing more of it. I'd love to know what you think! Feel free to let me know here or on my Tumblr- [carryonsimoncarryonbaz](https://carryonsimoncarryonbaz.tumblr.com)


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